There's a feeling on the tips of my fingers.

The smallest of legs on the smallest of creatures dance convoluted steps on my fingertips, sparking memories buried in my heart. These feelings are not new; they are not forgotten. Daggers of adrenaline form as chemical memories trigger responses not by choice, but by inherent necessity. These tiny fragments of me can see the thunderhead, and know what follows it.

The sky is grey and free of the celestial as I walk in this forest, a familiar creature skulking the treeline, scratching at my peripheral vision--burrowing into my conscious. It's a creature of serpentine presence, not hulking form. It slips behind me, back and forth, like so many impossible monsters wrought in childlike imaginations: as fast as is needed to terrify me.

These feelings are more familiar than most, but no less unsettling. I am not being hunted; whatever is coming has already arrived, and it's already begun to watch again. Again. Again. There's a cruel dogma in those teeth, and he's spreading his word. And before he's begun to preach, I'll be able to utter "Hello, old friend."

A forest hides everything. A simple collection of trees is the greatest secret of things ever assembled--much lives in this forest. Much dies in this forest. And these daggers of adrenaline will never cease as long as I walk these crooked, knotted paths under a steel sky filled with creatures innumerable and unreal. Paths these convoluted lead nowhere knowable, but I already know what's behind me, and it wants to preach to me. Preach me to pieces.

The stretching unknown is the future.